White Roses of Redemption
by Kyrie74
Summary: Just days after the chandelier crash, Meg Giry ventures into the Phantom's lair to learn what has become of Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny. There, in the depths of the Opera House, she comes face to face with the Phantom. Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter One Descent

**Just a few notes before the story. First, I don't own any of the characters (except some minor one like Madame Miron). The story is based mostly on the recent film of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Phantom of the Opera," but there are a few nods to Leroux. I have made Meg a brunette and Christine a blonde (it's my story and that's how I see it). Over the next few days, I will tidying up a few typos here and there. Many thanks to every one who has left wonderful comments! I am glad you liked it.**

**Read and review! **

_Chapter One - Descent_

Less than a week had passed since the mad events at the Opera Populaire. For several days, all of Paris talked of nothing else. Of the dark, disconcerting _Don Juan Triumphant_, of Ubaldo Piangi's murder, of the devastating chandelier crash, the sudden disappearance of Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny.

Most of all, they talked about the Phantom. Who was this mysterious madman? Where did he come from? Did he really live beneath the Opera House? Some said he did, in a fantastic grotto or a hermit's dungeon. Where did he come from? Some said from Hell, others laughed at that. Those who had seen him in those swift, horrible moments after Christine unmasked him on the stage talked of a monstrous face. Those who had not said he had the face of angel.

And what had become of Christine Daae and the Vicomte? It was known that, when the Phantom abducted Christine from the stage, Raoul de Chagny pursued them. But the fates of all three were unknown. It was thought they were all dead by the Phantom's hand.

I, Meg Giry, knew little enough, but it was more than most.

Overnight, though, interest in the Opera Ghost and his supposed victims faded as a new scandal - one involving the truly sordid affairs of a prominent member of the Government - seized the interest of the public.

Meanwhile, at the Opera House itself, we tried hard to return to our normal routines. The auditorium had been badly damaged and workers were clearing away the wreckage of the chandelier.

Worn out from dealing with the press and with investigators, the managers were looking for a new leading lady to replace Carlotta and Christine. This was no easy task as few were willing to even set foot in our theater. And who could blame them?

Under Maman's strict eyes, the girls of the ballet spent hours and hour practicing. It was a difficult time for Maman. The matter of the Opera Ghost had troubled her. The other ballet girls were very nervous and it was hard for them to rehearse when no one knew when or if we would be performing again.

Perhaps I found it the hardest to try. Too often, during those first days, I found myself thinking of that night, of the events that took place in the Phantom's underground home, of the mask which lay hidden in my tiny armoire.

_Maman had told me to not to follow when she showed the Vicomte the passage that led to the Phantom's hiding place. But I went after them, despite her warnings. The mob was close behind me, calling out for revenge...for Joseph Buquet (though most of us loathed him in life) and for Ubaldo Piangi. When I reached the underground lake and the Phantom's lair, I saw no sign of Christine or the Vicomte. Well ahead of the mob, I waded across the lake and found myself standing amid velvet drapery and heavy candlesticks. Broken mirrors were everywhere. Tangled amid the shards, I saw a torn wedding veil. I saw a music box - a little monkey with cymbals on a little table at the foot of a black bed in the shaped of a swan. _

_And it seemed that I heard a sound. An echo of sorrow, nothing more. That shadow of a cry made me shudder, though I wasn't sure if it was from fear or pity. _

_Something white lay on the red velvet cushions of the bed. It was _his_ mask. It looked so forlorn. I picked it up. Where was its owner?_

_At that moment, I heard the mob rushing in through the open portcullis. I grabbed the mask and went out to meet them. I stood there facing them, their torches reflected luridly in the water. Among them, I saw musicians, patrons, and stage hands. At their head, I recognized Messieurs Andre and Firmin. I was almost to surprised to see those two aging fops in such an aggressive state. Still, the Opera Ghost had certainly cost them a great deal._

_Standing at the very edge of the lake, I called out across the water._

"_He is dead!"_

_My cry, echoing off the stone walls and vaults, seemed to strike me. The men paused, torches flickering, guns poised. _

"_He's dead," I shouted again. "I saw him. He drowned there."_

_I pointed to the narrow opening where the lake flowed out to an underground stream. And, as if it were a trophy, I slowly held up the mask. The dark, empty eye framed the dancing flame of a torch._

"_I swear to you, the Opera Ghost is _dead._"_

Even days later, I still didn't know what I had lied to them like that, why I felt the need to protect this so-called Phantom who may have killed my dearest friend...who had murdered Bouquet and Piangi, who had brought a chandelier crashing down into a packed theatre only a hour earlier.

I knew Maman would not approve, but I had made up my mind to go back there. I wanted to know what had really happened, to find some sign of what had become of Christine, the Vicomte...and the Phantom.

On this particular morning, Maman had her hands full training some of the youngest members of the ballet corps, the "rats" as we often called them. I knew she would be occupied for a long time.

As discreetly as possible, I slipped the mask into a fold of my old shawl and let myself into Christine's dressing room. Her things were still there. A dressing gown lay draped across a chair. Flowers from the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant _still filled the room. They were dry now, but a sweet scent still filled the room.

I saw a single red rose on the vanity table. A black ribbon was tied around its thornless stem. The petals had withered and darkened, the leaves curled.

Carefully, I pushed open the mirror and stepped into the stone corridor. I made my way down the long passage to the steps. There I paused. What would I find at the end of the journey? I continued on. The tunnel was so quiet, so unlike the chaos and noise of the Opera House above. The silence almost hurt my ears.

Down deeper and deeper until I came to the lake. A small boat drifted just out of my reach, but I knew the water was shallow. I took off my slippers and, gathering my skirt up, I waded across.

Someone must have been there since that night. A few of the candelabra which had lain on the ground had been righted. A few of the candles were lit! The veil was no longer on the floor; I saw no sign of it. Sheets of music lay scattered about. A violin lay on the bed.

Mon Dieu, was I mad? I was afraid... I had no business being there. I suddenly thought of Maman's warning to the Vicomte and others.

_Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!_

I remembered too late. At that moment, I felt the noose drop around my neck and a voice spoke in the darkness.

"Who are you and what are you doing _here_ in _my_ house?"

I recognized the harsh voice that had rang out through the theatre on the night of Carlotta's humiliation in _Il Muto_

Even as I pried in vain at the hemp cord, the Phantom stepped toward me, emerging like a true ghost from the darkest of the shadows near the broken mirror. Picking up a candlestick from the desk, he held it high and looked closely at me.

"What...you are Madame Giry's daughter...Meg Giry!"

I tried to answer him, but could only make a weak gasp as the rope grew tighter.

"Foolish little girl! You forget your mother's warnings, didn't you...your hand at the level of your eyes," he snapped. "Well, let me remove your _necklace_."

I saw him make a single, swift motion with his left hand and the noose suddenly slid from me. I was very dizzy and knew my knees were buckling beneath me. But, before I could fall, he had grasped my arm and pushed me to a chair.

Rubbing my sore neck, I stared up at him. He was not the immaculately dressed, mysterious figure I had glimpsed in the Opera corridors, nor the scarlet apparition of the Opera ball. His clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled. He wore a mask, the black satin domino of "Don Juan Triumphant." It was askew on his face and barely covered the disfigured part of his face.

"Well, what are you doing here, Mademoiselle," he said, staring down at me. "I am sure your good mother would not approve."

"Maman doesn't know I am here," I said cautiously, "I only wanted...I just want to know where Christine is. And the Vicomte."

"To tell you the truth, Mademoiselle, _I don't know_! I sent her away. With him. I suppose they're safe somewhere. Married in some little church along the way, no doubt."

He looked away from me as he spoke. Had he really been in love with Christine? Surely, it was sorrow that I heard it his voice. That same sorrow I had heard that night.

"I didn't kill them," he snarled as he turned to me again, "if that is what you think!"

"Oh, no, monsieur. That isn't what I think!"

He began to pace the room, circled around the desk with his arms folded. He seemed to be deciding my fate. Perhaps I was a fool, but I was not frightened by him.

"Curiosity, little Mademoiselle, can be a very dangerous thing. I could have killed you. But I would not repay your mother by killing her only child."

He paused and stared into the broken mirror. It seemed as if he were trying to piece together his shattered reflection like a child's puzzle.

"You must excuse me," he said in a strained voice, "I was not expecting company."

I could see that something was wrong. He seemed unsteady, his hand searching for something to lean on. By then, I had recovered enough from my encounter with the Punjab lasso to stand. Before I could reach him, he had crumpled to his knees, holding the edge of the organ to keep from falling to the floor.

I tried to hold him up and I could feel the heat of his face. He was burning, feverish. Oh, what was I to do now?

He struggled back to his feet and I let him lean on me.

"Help me to the bed."

Carefully, we went up the steps together, his arm heavy on my shoulder. He moved slowly, breathing hard. A few paces from the bed, he fainted.

Somehow, I managed to push and drag him onto the bed. He was heavy, but I finally got him settled in the blood-red cushions. What was I supposed to do? What if he died?

I leaned down and slipped the black mask of his face. As I did, he seemed to shrink from me as if I had struck him.

I left quietly. I would find a way to help him.

I found Maman on the stairs to the ballet dormitory. She looked exhausted and did not question my absence.

"Maman, the Opera Ghost is still alive."

"What are you saying? What have you done, Meg?

Looking at her, I could not tell if I saw fear or anger in her eyes.

"You went down _there_, didn't you," she continued. "Ma petite, how could you be so foolish?"

"I was curious, Maman," I admitted. One simply did not lie to Madame Giry!

"Curious! Well, do you know what became of _them_?""He didn't kill them. He let them go. He said he sent her away with the Vicomte."

I saw Maman's sharp shoulders sag with relief. She has always treated Christine as if she were my own sister.

"Maman, the Opera Ghost is ill. And I am going to take care of him."

I had made my mind as I made my way back up through the tunnels leading from the lake to Christine's dressing room. I simply could not leave him like that, alone and ill. Whoever he was, whatever he had done, he still deserved some compassion. Even if Maman objected, I would do it.

There was a long silence as Maman and I walked down the corridors to our tiny apartment within the Opera House. At our door, she turned to me.

"Very well, Meg. Do what you think best. Only, be careful, ma petite. The world mistreated him for so long, he knows so little of kindness. You have seen what he is capable of."

I hugged her and hurried off in search of Madame Miron. Adele Miron was one of the Opera's best seamstresses and had charge of many of the ballet costumes. She was married to one of the trombone players. She knew a great deal about herbs and medicinal brews. It was said that many a chorus girl had gone to her for "help" when they found themselves with child by some lover. She would give them a special tea to drink. I did not particularly like her, but I knew she would be of use now.

She often worked late in the costume shop, even when there was no performance scheduled. She approached her tasks with an almost religious dedication. Her artistry with fabric and thread and spangles was the only thing about her that I liked and admired.

She was seated at her work table when I sought her out. Peacock-hued cloth shimmered before her. She was stitching whorls of silver and crystal beads on the skirt of a dress that had been intended for a new production of _Berengaria de Navarre_.

When I entered, she grinned up at me.

"Good evening, little Giry," she said with that shrill and sugary voice of hers, "what can I do for you?"

"I need some help, Madame. A...friend is ill."

She grinned again and glanced at my waist.

"A friend? Ah, little Giry, I am sure your mother would not approve."

Her insinuating tone infuriated me.

"No, Madame, that is _not_ why I am here. I need something for a fever."

She set aside the beautiful costume and rose from her table.

"You know," she said with an amiable laugh, "for a ballet girl, you can be quite a little prude, Meg Giry. Follow me."

She led me into a smaller room next to her workshop. She unlocked an old cabinet and drew out several wooden caskets. She laid them on the table in front of them. Inside, there were packets which gave off sweet and spicy scents. She began to select certain packets, talking as she laid them out before her.

"They say your mother knows who the Opera Ghost really was, that she knew all his secrets. Is that true?"

I shrugged. I was not about to confide in this old gossip! Besides, Maman had not told me much about the Phantom. I knew only she had found him at a fair and brought him to the Opera House before she married my father.

"No, she really didn't know much. He sometimes asked her to deliver messages for him. Nothing more."

Madame was opening the packets and tapping various herbs into a small dish. She kept chatting as she measured and mixed.

"I did see the Opera Ghost myself you know. About six months ago. I'd been working late on some of those dresses for _Hannibal_. I was just going down the stairs and I saw a man down on the next landing. He had a fine figure and was dressed quite well and I thought he might be a patron who become lost. Looking for one of the chorus girls or some such thing. So I called to him, asked if he needed help. His back was to me and most of the lights were already out. When he heard me, he turned. Half of his face was in the shadows, but I could see this terrible white mask and his eyes. I've never seen such cold eyes. I probably would have screamed if he'd come toward me or even if he stood there a second more. But before I could even catch my breath, he was gone. Don't know how he could have gone so quickly like that."

She picked up another packet and added something to her concoction. She kept on talking.

"I think the Opera Ghost must have been the one who had me make that wedding dress. I didn't really make the connection at the time. I came into my workroom one morning and found a note on my table. It was not signed, but the writer wanted me to make a dress. Included a sketch of a very pretty white gown and veil. Along with that, there was some money. A generous amount and it was just a down payment, the note said. I couldn't help noticing that the measurements for the dress were the same as Mademoiselle Daae's. At the time, I thought it might have been that Vicomte since everyone said he was courting the poor girl."

She finally finished her work. She slid the herbal mixture into an envelope and told me to brew a tea from it. She assured me it would break even the worst fever. I promised I would pay her, but she shrugged.

"No need to. Your mother kept the old managers from firing my Augustine from the orchestra after that fight with Buquet. I'm just another person round this place who is in her debt."

I thanked Madame Miron and hurried off with the packet of medicine and her instructions for its use. I went back to our apartment to fetch a warmer shawl for myself, a blanket (I didn't know if I would find any in the underground lair), and my rosary. Maman was asleep and didn't hear as I quietly closed the door behind me.

The Phantom did not awaken when I came in. I laid the light blanket over him and, finding an ornate samovar in a corner, I brewed Madame Miron's tea.

Sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, I gently touched the unmarred side of his face. I was not sure how to awaken him.

"Christine," he whispered, "give me my mask. Oh, Christine, why?"

"No, monsieur, it's me. Meg Giry."

Slowly, he opened his eyes. He did not seem to recognize me at first.

"What do you want with me?"

I could hear a child's fear in his voice. I gently patted his hand, trying to reassure him. Poor man. What must his life have been like to have made him so wary!

"I have some tea for you. You are ill and it will help you. Please, drink it...here."

Gently, I eased him up and pushed pillows behind his head. I held the cup to his lips.

After he had taken the tea, he fell asleep again. I drew a chair close to the bed and stayed by him for a long time. I was not much of a nurse, but I could at least keep watch over him.

His sleep was not peaceful. I could not imagine what memories, what nightmares had overtaken him.

"Mother, please...I don't want to wear it. Why must I? Mother, no! Please, sir, don't hit me again...not the whip...please. I don't want them to _see_. No, no, no...they will kill me."

Oh, mon Dieu. I wished there was some way to help him. I saw the pain in his face as he turned on the pillows. I laid aside my rosary and took his hand, but he drew away.

"Christine, forgive me. Don't turn away...Christine, I will spare him. For you. Only stay with me, Christine. Christine, don't leave me. Save me, Christine...Christine...Christine!"

The agony in his voice was too much for me to bear. I leaned over him and stroked his hair. Carefully, I touched the right side of his face. I gently caressed his disfigured temple and laid my palm against his rough cheek. I realized that I was crying for him and my tears fell on his face.

Slowly, he began to relax. His hand reached up and covered mine.

I knew it must be very late now. There were no clocks in this place. I had seen a pocket watch lying on the floor, its dial smashed. Still, my own weariness told me that I had been there for hours. Keeping my hand on his face, I carefully lay down on the large swan bed and fell asleep beside the Opera Ghost.


	2. Chapter Two More Questions

When I awoke, he was still asleep, but the fever had broken. Madame Miron's tea had worked.

I got up as quietly as possible and adjusted the blanket over him. It was almost madness to think that I had just spent the night sleeping beside the man known as the Phantom of the Opera. A man who had killed for the woman he loved, the woman he had lost.

Looking around his home, I decided I would try to straighten it up. So, I ignored that fact that I was rather hungry and began to picked up the scattered sheets of music, the broken candles. The monkey music box lay on its side at the foot of the bed. I picked it up gingerly - I did not want to trigger the mechanism - and set it on a shelf. I found the violin on the floor near an old settee in the bedroom. The strings were broken.

I sat down and looked at the violin. I remembered a night...it must have been over a year ago. I heard the sound a solitary violin echo so softly through the sleeping Opera House. I did not recognize the melody and could not tell if it was a sad love song or a tender lullaby. Maman did not awaken, but I had gotten out of bed and looked out into the hall. It was empty. But the music kept playing. I stood on my bed and looked out the tiny window onto the lower roof of the theatre. It seemed as if the music came from there. As the melody ended, I thought I saw a shadow moving across the far edge of roof in the heavy gray of the spring night.

Now I looked at the instrument and saw that it was a very fine one. I wondered sadly if this was the same violin I heard that night.

"Where is my mask, Mademoiselle Giry?"

I jumped up and hurried to his side. He struggled to sit up.

"Give me my mask, Mademoiselle."

I was about to tell him that it wasn't necessary...I was getting used to the sight of his face. But he held out his hand and I did not feel as if I could refuse him. I handed him the white mask that I had brought back.

I left him alone for a little while, then, and went back up to the theatre. I hurried to the theatre commissary and obtained some brioche and coffee. Carrying the food in a small basket, I went back down to the cellars.

I gave the Opera Ghost some brioche and freshly brewed coffee. As I settled into the chair next to his bed (which I believed was an old prop from an opera), he frowned at me.

"What do you want, Mademoiselle? What do you want from me? Singing lessons? I'm afraid the Angel of Music is no longer accepting students. Perhaps you thought I could assist your dancing career by blackmailing those idiots who mismanage my Opera House. At the moment, I don't think I have much influence with them. Besides, your mother and her ambitions for you ought to do the job well enough with any ghostly interference."

He paused and dipped a bit of brioche in the coffee.

"Why are you helping me," he continued.

"Because you needed helping. I couldn't just leave you here to die."

"Many people would have done so and without a second thought. It would have been better if you had."

He was silent for a time. I knew he was thinking of Christine.

Finally, he picked up one of the rolls and handed it to me.

"I'm being quite rude, Mademoiselle. We mustn't let you faint. I don't think I could carry you back up to your mother."

As I sat there, having coffee and brioche with the infamous Opera Ghost, many questions drifted into my mind. I felt certain he could not...and would not...hurt me...even if he was regaining strength...so I risked his temper.

"Why did you kill Joseph Buquet?"

"Surely, you have heard the saying _kill or be killed_," he said, without any anger, "You girls out to be thankful to me. He was always stalking about, peering into your dressing rooms, leering at you from the catwalks. Sooner or later, one of you would have been...hurt."

What he said was true. Buquet was a creepy fellow, always watching us young women with lust on his oily face, inviting himself into the chorus dormitories. He was a much more frightening to me than any ghost had ever been..

"What about Piangi?"

He frowned and pushed his coffee cup across the tray.

"I didn't set out to kill him. I only meant to keep him out of the way for _Don Juan_. He was fat, his heart gave out when I struck him. Since he was dead, I added the noose for the effect. The more terror I could bring into the theatre that night, the better. No doubt La Carlotta was devastated."

I forced myself to ask the next question.

"And the chandelier? That was no accident."

"No, Mademoiselle Giry, it was no _accident_. I would have destroyed my entire Opera House in order to keep Christine at my side. In the end, it was in vain."

There was no remorse in his voice. No regret for the people that had been killed and hurt. I was about to reproach him.

Then I thought of Messieurs Firmin and Andre. Neither of them had shown more than a very thin veneer of concern for the victims of the chandelier crash, only for the damage to the theatre and the effect on revenues.

"Now, Mademoiselle, it is my turn to ask you a question. What became of Monsieur Reyer? Was he hurt?"

"Reyer? He was able to scramble out of the way of the chandelier when it came down. He is unharmed, though shaken badly by it. Why do ask about him?"

"Because, of all the people in my Opera House, he is one of the few who is not a total fool. He is dedicated to his work and has some good sense. Like your mother."

I knew that I should leave; Maman would be expecting me at rehearsals soon. Now that I knew the Opera Ghost was recovering, I could go without worrying.

I gathered up my shawl, my rosary, and the basket from the commissary. He thanked me for my kindness in a most gentlemanly way.

Before I went out to the lake, though, I had two more questions for the Phantom of the Opera.

"Monsieur, may I come again sometime?"

He seemed quite surprised by this, as if he could not imagine anyone actually willing to visit his underground home.

"If you wish, Mademoiselle," he said with a shrug.

My next question surprised him even more.

"I can hardly call you _Opera Ghost_ or _Monsieur Phantom_. Do you have a name? A real name?"

"Yes," he said slowly, his beautiful voice tinged with disbelief, "yes, my name is...it's Erik."

As I guided the boat across the lake, I heard his voice again, a low whisper carrying across the water.

"Christine never asked my name."


	3. Chapter Three A Note From Christine

The next few days were filled with seemingly endless hours of practice. There was talk that the managers were close to finding a new leading lady and that the Opera Populaire would re-open as soon as repairs to the stage and stalls were completed. Maman drilled us like soldiers in tulle. She was determined that when the Opera did re-open, we dancers and chorus girls would be at our best. I was so busy I could not find anytime to visit Erik, though I found myself thinking about him often. Many nights, as I lay wearily in my bed, I would wonder how he was

I could not help but feel compassion for the poor man. Alone, deformed, abandoned by the woman he loved enough to kill for. And I wondered....if Christine had not fallen in love with her handsome Vicomte, would she have come to love her Angel of Music?

I wished there was some way to help him. Not there was much I could do. I was just a ballet tart. Well, I could at least visit him once in a while, offer him a little friendship.

Three weeks later, I received a note. It had been posted from London and sent to me at the Opera House. I opened it.

"_Dear Meg,_

_You have always been my true friend and I felt it would be wrong not to let you know that I am well. I cannot tell you all that took place after Don Juan Triumphant, but the Phantom spared my life and that of the Vicomte. Raoul and I were married a week ago in London. We plan to stay in England for now, but I dare not tell you where. I would not want_ him_ to know. I am certain he can never forgive me. Tell your mother that I am grateful for all she has done for me. Raoul, too, is thankful for her aid. God bless you, dear friend._

_Christine"_

I made some excuse to Maman and went to down to the lake. Erik must have heard me coming for he met me in the boat. He was well-dressed, too, in a dark suit and brocaded waistcoat. His face was covered with the same white mask that I had found that night. He was the old, familiar Opera Ghost.

When we had crossed the lake, I told him I had news of Christine.

He turned on me with an eagerness in his eyes that made me regret my words. How would he react to the note? Without a word, I handed it to him.

I watched him as he read it. He said nothing for a long time. I heard only a long, low sigh.

He stared at me, the note trembling in his hand as he sank to his knees.

"You don't know what happened that night," he said.

I shook my head and sat down on the floor near him.

"I forced her to come back here with me; I was going to make her marry me, no matter what. For a time, my love had turned to something else, something darker. I was like a demon in my rage. Christine was frightened, but I didn't care. She told me that she no longer pitied me, that her pity had turned to hate. The Vicomte came looking for her - your mother showed him the way. I was going to kill him. But I told Christine that I would spare him if she would promise to stay with me."

I saw tears forming in his eyes as he spoke. The note lay on the floor, a small white ghost on the dark Persian rug.

"She kissed me then. No one had ever kissed me. No woman, not even my mother. At that moment, I thought she loved me. I thought she really would stay with me. I was wrong. She only choose me because she loved him. The Vicomte had begged her not to sacrifice herself for him. In the end, that's what she did. She loved him enough to accept life with me in exchange for his safety."

I knew that his tears were mirrored by my own.

"How could I hold her to _that_ bargain? I let them go. I knew that she would never come to love me. That she would never see beyond...this."

He made a sad gesture toward his mask and what lay beneath it.

"But, then, she returned," he continued, his voice breaking as he spoke, "For a moment, I thought she would stay. She gave me back the ring - I'd given it to her - and left me. For good."

I reached out and laid my hand on his shoulder. I had no words to comfort him with. I knew little of love myself, except the tragedies and bawdy tales of the operas. And I knew my voice would have been choked with sorrow if I tried to speak.

"Please, no pity," he said.

He rose and helped me to my feet. He turned to one of the shatter mirrors and starred at his broken image..

"Don't pity me, Mademoiselle Giry. Pity makes no difference. It changes nothing."

"If I call you Erik," I said, joining him by the mirror and looking at my own ruined reflection, "should you call me Meg?"

He left the mirror and sat down at the organ.

"You're too old to be called little Meg. Why not Marguerite?"

"You knew my name came from _Faust_?"

"A guess."

No one had called me Marguerite since I was baptized. It seemed disconcerting to hear him say the name now. I had always been plain Meg, little Meg."

I picked up Christine's note from the floor and held it out to him.

"Do you want to this?"

He took it and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Thank you, Marguerite."

Later, when I emerged from the passageway, I found my mother waiting for me. She explained that the managers had indeed found a new leading lady - an American named Catherine Brown. She was no Christine Daae, Maman explained, but she was very good and eager to sing in Paris. They would be staging _Berengaria of Navarre_ after all. I was to have a solo number as one of the ladies in Saladin's harem.

During the subsequent weeks, I saw little of Erik. We spent hours and hours preparing for the re-opening of the Opera. Rehearsals and costume-fittings took up all of my time; I did not have a free moment to make the trip into the cellars to see him.

Still, I did not forget him. I was certain he would never see beyond his unfulfilled passion for his lost Christine and I felt sorry for the way life had condemned him, the way he had condemned himself to become a living ghost, cut off from the world.

The night before the premiere of_ Berengaria_, I found I could not sleep. I was not nervous. I had grown up in the theater and such events did not trouble me much. Maman, however, was exhausted. She seemed to tire easily these days. Quietly, I got up and looked out the window.

Above the leads and statues of the lower roof, I could see the silver stars and ink-black sky of a late winter night. The starlight threw the shadows across the roof toward the window. In the darkness, I saw a figure walking slowly along the parapet wall at the far side of the roof...a man in a cape. I could not see his face at that distance, but I knew that it was covered by a white mask.

The day of the premiere arrived. I went to see Madame Miron about my costume. She had it ready for me, a gauzy and very sensual dress of purple, trimmed with silver and gold beads. Next to the costume lay a large scarf of the same sheer purple. As usual, Madame Miron had plenty to say.

"Well, the managers ought to be pleased. It's nearly a full house; no one was sure if people would be willing to come back here after all that awful business with the chandelier. I suppose many people are curious you know. You know, they couldn't find anyone to take Box Five, after all. No one's brave enough for that yet!"

In my dressing room, I changed into my costume without help. Maman had her hands full readying the other girls. There were already several bouquets in the room. Most were from dashing young fops who frequented the Opera, looking for mistresses among the ballet and chorus. One lavish arrangement came from a certain Gaston LeCreuse, a wealthy merchant who had been trying rather too hard to attract my attention for the past two seasons.

I also found a soft parcel on the little settee. It had no card. I opened it and found an exquisite silk scarf inside. It was a brilliant thing, a deep turquoise embroidered with shimmering threads of purple, yellow, red, and emerald. It looked like something out of a Persian tale. I knew that it was a gift from Erik.

I wondered if he would be watching the opera. Would he be there, somewhere in the darkened theatre? I quickly laid aside Madame Miron's scarf and draped the Persian silk over my shoulders.

Though she could not compare to Christine, Mademoiselle Brown was indeed very good as Berengaria, wife of the crusading Richard Coeur de Lion. Off-stage, she was a pretty and pleasant young woman. Everyone took a liking to her and wished her much success here.

My solo came just before the Entr'Acte. I played the role of Zadira, a pretty harem girl who sings and dances before Saladin on the eve of a battle. As I performed, I let the Persian scarf twirl around me, the stage lights turning it into a luminous rainbow.

I gave the audience my best that night. I knew that Maman expected it of me and that the Opera Populaire's future depended on the success of _Berengaria_. And I still hoped that Erik was there, watching us.

Was it just my imagination, then, when I looked up toward Box 5 during the curtain and saw I what I thought was a white mask there in the shadow of the hangings?

I knew that it was not my imagination. When I returned to my little dressing room, I found a single white rose on my dressing table. A white rose tied with a black silk ribbon.


	4. Chapter Four All Alone

The next morning, Maman was kept busy with the dancers. She was assessing the previous night's work, praising the girls who truly deserved it, pointing out weaknesses.

Over breakfast, she had seemed well enough. I knew she was pleased with my performance. She said nothing of the shawl, though several times she glanced the rich fabric carefully laid on my armoir.

Now, however, she seemed worn and tired. Older as she paced back in forth in front of the girls.

"Mirelle, you were too slow, you did not keep pace with the others during the last scene. Josephine, stand straight, your shoulders are too rounded."

I saw some of the younger girls giggling as Maman scrutinized their peers. Maman noticed, too.

She turned toward the girls but, before she could say anything, I saw her clutch the handle of her cane. A second later, she sank back against the wall.

"Maman," I cried and ran to her.

Lili and Marie, two of the older ballet girls hurried to the door.

"I'll go find Madame Miron," Lili called to me.

"I'll get Dr. Antonin," added Marie.

The theatre doctor came at once and, within minutes, my unconscious mother had been carried to our apartment and laid in bed.

I stood at the foot of the bed, clutching the cold iron frame as Dr. Antonin examined Maman. When he turned to me, his expression told me the truth. There was no need for him to tell me. Maman was dead.

I stared down at my hands, the knuckles were white as I continued to hold tightly to the bed.

When Madame Miron came, I began to cry.

Maman's funeral was held in the little Opera House chapel. She had given her life to the Opera Populaire so it only seemed fitting. She was buried in a quiet section of the same cemetery where Christine's father was also interred. It was a small group that gathered at the grave. Messieurs Andre and Firmin, Dr. Antonin, dear old Reyer, Madame Miron and her husband, the older girls from the ballet corps, Catherine Brown, Jacques Muir (our new tenor), and several retired dancers who had known Maman from her own days on the stage.

Standing in a sort of sickly haze at Maman's graveside that chilly morning, I looked up and saw a dark movement near the Daae vault, the edge of cloak blown by the wind. Erik, it would seem, had come to pay his respects, too.

The next day, I walked aimlessly about the Opera House. I had nothing else to do, nowhere to go. I did not join the rehearsals; I was not yet ready to practice with the new ballet mistress. My throat was too constricted with sadness to sing

I could not sit there in the apartment, still full of her things. Instead, I wandered through the busy passages, a sad, lost girl in a plain black dress.

In the corridor near my dressing room, I was met by Msr. LeCruese. He bowed and took my hand.

"Mademoiselle Giry, please, allow me to offer you my deepest, deepest sympathies. I was in Calais when I read of your mother's passing. I am so sorry, my dear girl."

"Thank you, Monsieur," I said, to my surprise, he followed me into my room.

"What is it that you want, Monsiuer," I asked without any real interest in his answer. That numb hazy feeling of the previous day still enveloped me. I could almost feel it smothering me.

He grasped my hand again.

"Mademoiselle. I came here as soon I read of your mother. I left all my business in Calais to be here, to make you an offer. I have a lovely little cottage just outside Paris. A charming place, perfect for a charming girl like yourself. You see, it isn't good for such a pretty little angel to be left so alone in the world. You would be very happy there and I would find your company to be..quite pleasant. I am prepared to be generous you, ma petite ange."

I was repulsed by this portly dandy. I turned on him in what I can only describe as a cold rage.

"Get away from me at once. You are filthy opportunist, to accost a young woman with such a vile proposal on the very day after her mother's funeral. How dare you. Go home to your wife, sir. Or find some other girl to accept your _generosity_. There a plenty of tarts here who'd gladly sink to your level."

Something in my anger must have actually frightened my unwanted suitor. He quit my room at once and scurried down the corridor.

I left the room and continued my aimless walk through the Opera House. A few minutes later, Monsieur LeCreuse dashed passed me. Without any real interest, I noted that his fat face was white and beads of sweat shown like sequins on his high forehead.

I came at last to the theater chapel. It was usually deserted; other than Christine (who often prayed that her father would send her an angel of music), few of the Opera people used it. It was the legacy of a former patron who hoped the chapel's spiritual benefits would balance any perceived immorality of stage life.

I went in and stood alone in a trembling pool of colored light cast by the stained glass window of St. Cecilia. I thought I would offer a rosary for Maman, but I realized my beads were not in the pocket of my black dress.

So I whispered a single Ave in the silent room. Dust shimmered in the air, sparkling in and out of the colored light. As I came to the words _now and at the hour of our death_, I felt tears burning my cheeks. I sank down on the nearest prie-Dieu and sobbed aloud.

"Maman, why did you leave me now? O, Maman, where are you?"

I was weeping now, there seemed no end to my tears.

"Maman, why did you leave me all alone?"

At that moment, a hand was laid on my shoulder, so gently I might not have realized it was there until I heard a voice.

"Not_ all_ alone, Marguerite."

Erik stood close to me, looking down with me with sad kindness in his eyes.

He drew me from the kneeler and turned me to face him.

"I know what it is to be lonely," he said, touching my tear-stained cheek with his gloved hand.

Sobbing and unable to speak, I fell into his arms and buried my face against his shoulder.

I don't recall exactly how we made our way down to his home. Erik led me there in silence, through an unfamiliar series of tunnels and stairs. He held my hand, guiding me along the dim passages.

This seemed to be a longer way because, at some point, I faltered. He picked me up and carried me the rest of the way.

Still, my tears could not end. They continued even as he placed me on the old settee in his study. Sitting beside me, he put his arms around me.

For a moment, my mind cleared and I thought how strange it was to be held by the man the world had known as a monster, a murderer, a living ghost. How good it was of him to hold me, to let me rest my head on his shoulder. Then the tears returned.

And he sang to me. It was the first time I had heard him sing since the angry passion of _Don Juan Triumphant_. I thought that I would never hear his voice again, that the will to sing had left him when Christine left her Angel of Music for a handsome young Vicomte.

I could not understand the words and realized it was not in French. Russian, it seemed. It may have been that same song I had heard played on the roof late one night. I know only that it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard and that there was an indescribable kindness in his voice.

I found that I was falling asleep in his arms. Before I drifted off into a trusting, dreamless peace, I felt him shift my weight against him so he could reach his cloak and lay it over me.


	5. Chapter Five Compassion Returned

It was the sound of a heartbeat that awakened me. I was still in Erik's arms, my face nestled on his chest. The undamaged side of his face rested against my hair.

Maman, I thought, would be livid if she knew I where I was, snuggled in a man's embrace. Even though we lived in the often lax world of the Opera House, she did her best to protect me. She hoped I would find a wealthy, titled husband among the Opera's patrons, but she vehemently discouraged the attentions of idle fops and men like M. LeCreuse. I was her little Meg.

But Maman was dead. That's why I was here, sheltered in the arms of a man whose past was a mystery, a man forced to hide his face from the world, a man whose need for love had driven him to madness, to murder. Poor Maman would never know.

That thought saddened me, but I did not cry again. I let myself sink back into sleep.

When I awoke again, I was not on the settee, but on the bed. A black lace curtain divided the "room" from his study. Through that fine black veil, I could see him at his desk, dressed in a wine-colored velvet robe, leaning over some work.

Quietly, I stepped through the curtain and went down the stone steps to the study. I saw him in profile at that moment, the deformed side his face was not visible. I caught my breath at how beautiful he was. His mask lay on the desk and it suddenly seemed so cruel. The contrast between the two halves of his face, one so handsome...you could even say angelic, the other so hideous it looked almost demonic.

He heard my approach and quickly slipped the mask onto his face. He said nothing, but resumed his work. I saw that he was repairing his violin. He seemed absorbed in the task and I did not feel it would be right to interrupt him.

I looked around the room at the broken mirrors...so many of them in this place. Only one was not shattered, a tiny round mirror on the bookshelf. He must have overlooked that one. Or spared it on purpose. I peered at it. It was hard to see much, but I realized I was a mess. My hair was mussed, long strands had worked loose from my heavy braid, my eyes were swollen from crying, my cheeks streaked with the salt of so many tears. Glancing down, I saw my dress was rumpled, too.

I felt rather ashamed of my appearance, though it could not be helped.

Next to the mirror was a small clock, a pretty enameled thing. It was working; it read half past six.

Morning or night, I wondered. There was no way to tell how long I had slept, how long I had been there in Erik's home.

"It's morning, Marguerite," he said without looking up from the violin. "There are coffee and brioche on the table by the settee."

I was glad of it. I sat down and took a roll, remembering the morning that I had brought him a similar meal.

"Thank you, Erik."

He still did not look up, but I could have sworn I saw him smile.

As I ate my roll and sipped the coffee, I looked around the room again. So many books. And hundreds of pages of music, much of it written in his hand which I remembered from the original score of _Don Juan Triumphant._ I took in everything, the velvet hangings which seemed to be old stage curtains. Many of the furnishings also seemed to be cast off from the theatre above. Except for the beautiful organ. I wondered if he had built it himself.

When my glance came back toward the study, I saw that he had laid aside the violin. He rose and came down the steps toward the settee. Leaning down, he lightly touched me salt-streaked face.

"Are you going to be all right, Marguerite?"

The grief and fear of the previous morning came back. I was afraid the emotions would overtake me again.

"I don't know, Erik. I don't know. I am so afraid."

He drew a chair up before me.

"What are you afraid of? Tell me, let me help you."

"I can't explain it," I said, pathetically, " I am so just so frightened."

"Look at me, Marguerite."

I met his compelling eyes. I had looked after him when he was ill, I spent two nights sleeping close to him. I trusted him.

"I don't know what to do without Maman. It was only the two of us, always. I was her only child, she was my world. We had no family, no friends, only the Opera. And now she is gone. What will happen to me?"

"What do you _want_ to happen, little one?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know. I just can't think. My mind, my feelings...everything is so twisted about. Maman saw to everything. She wanted me to be a lady someday. In the meantime, I had only to think of my dancing."

I felt so foolish and helpless. Was I the same young woman who danced boldly across the Opera stage, entwined with a Persian shawl? Was that only a few nights ago? Was I the same girl who ignored her fears to learn the fates of Christine and her lover?

Erik said nothing, but he got up and walked away. No doubt he thought me a whining, stupid child.

He returned with a damp cloth.

"Here, wipe away your tears."

After I had cleaned my face, he helped me to my feet.

"Marguerite Giry, I want to help you. I would have died here if it were not for you. I wanted to, you know. And now I am in your debt. You are the first person to show me compassion. _Compassion_, Marguerite, not _pity_. Your mother is dead, but you cannot let you own life stand still at that moment.

He led me down to the edge of the lake and brought his boat to the steps.

"Marguerite, this place has been, at times, my prison. It's been my hell, but there are times when it had been my heaven...my refuge, the only place where I have found...what some would call peace, I suppose. Let it be your refuge, too. Stay here as long as you want, as long as you need to."

Could he have read my mind? As I watched him guide to boat to the edge, I had dreaded leaving this place, dreaded the thought of going back to the tiny, drab apartment I had shared with Maman in the upper stories of the theater.

"But, for now," he continued, lighting the boat's two lanterns, "you must go up. They will be wondering about you. If you vanish...like Christine...it might be dangerous for me. You must go back and get ready for rehearsals."

He helped me step into the boat and tossed one of his cloaks over my shoulders. It was rather chilly on the lake that morning.

When we reached the theatre, I returned the cape to him before I stepped out of the narrow passage into the chapel.

"Erik, I don't want to impose on you. You've been so kind to me, but I don't want to intrude into your world."

"Don't argue with me, Mademoiselle! I rarely incur debts and, when I do, I pay them."

His voice was stern, but he was smiling beneath the mask.

"If you would like, I could go to your rooms and bring your things down while you are rehearsing. I have a few _errands_ to see to first."

He did not wait for an answer. He left me standing there, but I heard him call back to me.

"I will be waiting for you at the mirror."

I went up to the small, dreary rooms Maman and I had lived in all these years. I glanced around them as I brushed and rebraided my hair. I took my white ballet dress and a clean black dress from the armoir. I had always disliked the tiny gray rooms, but I had been content with them. Maman had always told me that one day, when I married, I would have a fine house. Perhaps even a chateau. Maman had great plans for me.

I knew I was not coming back to the apartment again as I hurried off to the dancers' dressing rooms.

Until a new mistress of the ballet could be found, the managers had put Sorelli in charge of our practices. All the girls were quite nice and sympathetic. They tried to make kind remarks about how hard it must be to lose my dear friend, Christine, and then my mother so soon after. Or how sad it was to lose Maman on the morning following my wonderful performance in _Beregaria_. They wondered where I had been yesterday and told me that M. LeCreuse was seen fleeing from the theatre in terror. It was said he left Paris very quickly. Could it be there was still a ghost in the Opera House, after all, they giggled.

I did not mind their chatter, their attempts to cheer me. Still, I knew that none of their efforts could comfort me the way Erik had when he held me in his arms and sang me to sleep.

"Why, Meg, what are you thinking? You're blushing! Bright and red like Isabelle's new dress!"

Overnight, the name Meg had become foreign to me. I had quickly grown used to hearing Erik calling me Marguerite. I could not explain that...or where I had spent the night...to the other dancers. Some, like Sorelli, were quite worldly. Others were naive little brats.

I simply shrugged and said that practice had simply made me too warm. I could hardly wait to leave.

Sorelli kept us practicing forever it seen. When she dismissed us, I quickly changes into the black dress I'd brought and almost flew down the hallway. At last I slipped through the mirror and he was there. Waiting for me, as he said he would.

Little was said as we walked down toward the lake, but several times, he turned to look at me. He carried only a small lantern and I could not see his expression.

When we had crossed the lake, I found he had indeed brought everything down from the apartment.

"I brought your mother's things, too. I knew you would want to keep them. They are in that trunk in the back."

"Thank you, Erik."

"The bedroom is yours for as long as you stay here. I shall sleep on the settee in here."

I shook my head. It seemed rather selfish of me to take over his home like this.

"No, Erik, I can take the settee..."

"Marguerite, I have slept on stone floors, on the cold, hard ground. I have slept in a palace, in catacombs. And I have slept in...a cage. The settee will be quite comfortable. It won't be the first time I've slept there."

A cage? O, mon Dieu! Poor Erik! I knew Maman had helped him runaway from a fair, but I never thought that...oh, no, that he had been kept in a cage.

I didn't know what to say to him. He put a single finger to his lips and shook his head. There was some things it was best not to speak of, after all.

So I left him and went up to the bedroom to arrange my things. As I went through the box of inexpensive jewelry that Maman wore to Opera balls, I found a small silk pouch. I had never seen it there before. I opened it and found a fine gold chain. A single pearl hung from the chain.

I brought it to the study where Erik was at his desk, sealing a letter with deep red wax.

"Erik, I don't know where this came from. It's not Maman's."

"Of course not, Marguerite. It's yours."

I stared at the lovely necklace. He had put it there where I would find it.

"Erik, you mustn't give me presents like that. It's too expensive..."

"Put it on, Marguerite, it is yours."

I hesitated; Maman was had very strict ideas about men giving jewelry to young women,

Erik rose and took the necklace from my hand. Pushing my braid aside, he fastened the pearl around my neck. Did I imagine that he let his hands linger for a moment.

I remembered Christine saying that, when he had touched her hand, she thought she would die from terror. Why, Christine, why?

He stepped away and gestured toward the bedroom.

"Go and look; there's a mirror there."

Returning to the bedroom, I found the new mirror there, covered with a piece of rose-colored silk. I lifted the silk and saw the pearl shimmering above the tight black bodice of my dress.

Then I remembered something else. The Masked Ball. Erik had been there, in crimson velvet, a skull-like mask covering his face. He had stood there on the marble stairs, looking down at Christine. He saw the Vicomte's engagement rings on a silver chain around her neck. I remember how he had snatched it from her.

"Your chains are still mine," he'd snarled.


	6. Chapter Six The Picture

There was a light supper waiting for me, a dish of good bread and chicken waiting for me when I finished putting away my clothing. After supper, we sat together in Erik's library, a grotto-like alcove off of the study.

"Shall I read to you?" he said, after seeing me to a chair.

I had hoped that he would sing to me again, but I nodded. To hear his voice was wonderful, even if he just wanted to read aloud to me.

To be honest, I quickly forgot just what he was reading to me. I do not know whether it was a story or a poem or some work of history. All I could hear was his voice itself, a haunting, magnificent voice that seemed almost tangible in the candlelight.

From time to time, I looked across the room at him. From where I sat, I could not see his face, only the cold white of the mask.

I wondered about him, about his sad life. What would he have been without the deformity? Was his tortured face the price he had to pay for his brilliant mind?

If there had been no mask, he would not have passed his days in the cellars of an Opera House, never become a living ghost, an angel of music. He might have never loved Christine, only to lose her. He might have been happy.

Finally, he laid the book aside.

"It's late, Marguerite, you ought to go to sleep. I wouldn't want you to be late for practice in the morning."

I rose reluctantly. I did not look forward to practice or the company of the ballet tarts and chorus, to my normal life.

Erik did not rise. He ran his fingers aimlessly over the worn leather binding of his book. He seemed to be deep in thought.

As I passed his chair, I noticed that, beneath his open shirt collar, he wore a gold chain. Suspended from the chain was a diamond ring.

It must have be Christine's ring, I thought sadly.

Once in the bedroom, I drew the black lace curtain down and stepped behind an old, carved screen to undress. Once I had changed, I peeked out from behind the curtain. Erik had left the library and was walking slowly along the lake's edge. He had removed the mask, though from where I stood, I could not see his deformity clearly.

"Good night, Erik," I called to him.

"Good night, Marguerite," he answered without turning.

The next several weeks were almost identical. I rose early and, after rolls and coffee, Erik would escort me to the theatre above. I passed my days in the theatre as I always had. Tired after hours of stretching and dancing and singing, I returned with Erik to his home. In the evenings, he would read to me.

An understudy had been given my role in _Berengaria_ after Maman died, but a new production of _Les Cascades _was planned. That would keep everyone busy. I was offered a very good role as one of the water nymphs. They had been pleased with my role as Zadira.

The new role was very good, but I felt little enthusiasm in securing it.

It was now over a month after Maman's funeral. I was surprised at how easily I had gone from life with her in our high, cramped apartment, to life with Erik in his underground world.

That evening, Erik laid aside the books and told me of his stay in Persia. I knew he had spent some years away from the Opera House, that he had gone as far as Russia and India, that he had traveled with Gypsies.

I could tell, as he spoke of the Persian court, that there were parts of the story that he did not wish to speak of. Grim things that he did not want to relive. I did not question him about these things. These memories were his own and it was up to him to share them or keep silent.

When I retired for the evening, I found I was not sleepy. Vivid images from Erik's tales shone in my mind. I got out of bed and glanced around the edge of the curtain. The rest of the house was in darkness. I lit a lamp and sat down at the mahogany writing desk that stood against one wall of my bedroom. There was a supply of good paper in one of the desk's many compartments. It was writing paper, but I'd little opportunity to use it. I took a pencil and began to draw.

When I was done, I laid the picture on the desk and looked at it. I had drawn a garden, one of the Persian gardens of Erik's tale. I drew it as he described it. There was the fountain in the center, the roses beyond counting, the delicate stone arches. All were there. And so was he. In the corner, there stood a man, tall and dark-haired. He wore European clothes beneath an embroidered robe. He stood in the shadows, only a hint of a mask visible.

Tired at last, I extinguished the lamp and settled into bed.

I awoke to hear Erik's voice just beyond the curtain, reprimanding me. It seems I had overslept and, if I did not hurry, I would miss practice.

I rushed to dress. As I hastily raised the curtain, the picture fluttered from my desk. I did not see where it fell.

By the time Erik brought me back from practice, I had forgotten the sketch completely. I went up to the bedroom to change out of my white practice clothes and into the plain black dress I usually wore to supper.

When I came down to the study, Erik was at his desk. My picture lay in front of him.

He rose and handed it to me.

"This is yours, I assume. I found it on the steps near your room."

"I...I didn't mean for you to see it."

He examined it for a minute.

"Why not? It's good."

"Good? Oh, no, it's nothing. I meant nothing by it. I just couldn't sleep."

"Did you ever take drawing lessons?"

I shook my head. Before I entered the Opera's ballet school, while Maman was still a dancer, I had spend a few years at a nearby convent school. One of the nuns sometimes let me scribble a bit on spare pieces of paper, nothing more.

"The roses, the fountain. Just as I told you. But why am I there?"

"It was your story, Erik. You belonged there. You aren't angry?"

He sighed deeply and laid the picture in my hands.

"No, Marguerite, I am not."

The following evening, I was very tired and out of sorts when I returned from practice. Sorelli resented having to act as ballet mistress - she though it diminished her status with the Opera Populaire and she took it out on everyone by working us to death. As I walked down to the lake with Erik, I was silent and I ached all over.

I decided I would go to bed early. I was simply exhausted.

I changed into my nightgown and didn't even bother to brush my hair as usual. With a weary sigh, I stretched out on the bed. A minute later, I sat up again and lit the lamp. I realized that I had seen a parcel lying on the writing desk. I got the package and sat on the edge of the bed as I opened it.

Inside I found drawing paper, pencils, and a set of watercolor paints and brushes. Even I could tell that they were very high quality and very expensive.

I ducked through the curtain and hurried down to the library. Erik was sitting there. His mask lay on the floor. He reached for the mask when he heard me enter, but he could not pick it up without exposing his face to me. He raised his hand to cover the deformed side as best he could.

"What do you want, Marguerite?"

"Only to say thank you, Erik."

"Oh, you mean the paper and paint. You're welcome," he shrugged, "I thought you might enjoy them."


	7. Chapter Seven The Ruins

When I returned to my room, I realized that I had forgotten to put a shawl or robe over my nightgown. I blushed at my own carelessness.

Though my limbs still ached from the day's practice, I was no longer sleepy. I took the paper and pencils and sat down on the little sofa in my room.

I looked at the white paper and knew at once what I would draw. I sketched Erik sitting alone in the library, his hand to his face, Christine's ring on the chain around his neck, his mask at his feet.

By the time I had finished the picture, I was crying . I hastily put the picture away in the desk drawer to avoid staining it with my tears.

I sat down on edge of the bed and let the tears com for the first time since Maman's death. I knew for certain that I was in love with Erik. Not because of the little presents, not because he had taken me in when I was so lost and alone. Sometimes love needs no reason, no explanation. I loved him and could not do otherwise.

And he still loved Christine. I did not doubt that he would love her until he died.

Erik must have heard me weeping. He drew aside the curtain and dropped on one knee next to me.

"Marguerite, what is wrong?"

No, no! I could not tell him the truth. Nor could I lie to him. I did not answer him. I just shook my head and held back a sob.

"Poor girl, you're sick with weariness."

He gently pushed me down onto the pillows and drew the covers over me.

"Would you like me to stay here with you?"

I remembered that first night when I slept in his arms. I would have given my soul to repeat that, but I didn't dare.

"No, Erik," I whispered, "But thank you. For everything."

He left me then. He turned down the lamp and lowered the curtain.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of his violin. A melody so soft and sweet that I might have been merely imagined that I heard it. But it was real and it was the first time I had heard him play it since he had repaired it.

I dreamed that I was returning from practice. I was alone; Erik had not come to meet me at the mirror and I was alarmed. I rushed down the steps in my pink slippers, my feet aching as they almost always did.

When I came to the lake, the boat was not there. On the other side, the portcullis was lowered and I saw no lights beyond it.

"Erik," I called. He did not answer and the echoes of my cry were absorbed into the shadows.

I decided I would wade across and see if I could get through the portcullis. I bent to unlace the torturing slippers.

At that moment, I saw the boat moving toward me across the lake. The dark figure that guided it was too small and slight to be Erik. It was a woman in a black dress.

"Meg Giry! Into the boat," she ordered., her voice sharp and her face impassive.

I meekly obeyed and we crossed the lake without light or sound.

The portcullis slid upward and we entered Erik's home. She lit a small lamp and held it high as if she wished to show me something. I looked around and saw that something was very wrong.

The candles had all burnt down to misshapen cascades of wax. Thick dust covered everything...the furniture, Erik's books, the organ. The violin lay on the floor, broken beyond repair. The black lace curtain was so ragged it was little more than a cobweb hanging limply across the entrance to the bedroom. The velvet coverings of my bed were threadbare and musty.

"What does he want from you, Meg Giry?"

I started at the sound of my childhood name. She saw my reaction.

"What does he want from you, _Marguerite_?"

"Maman, what do you mean? I don't understand."

"What does he want? Why does he _keep_ you here? With Erik, there is always a price to pay."

"He asks nothing of me."

"And what do you want from him," she demanded.

I would not answer her. I knew that I could not have his love - that remained Christine's. There was nothing else.

I stared at my mother in silence.

"Meg Giry, you deserve better than this. I did not raise you to have you spend your life in a cellar, to be the companion of a living ghost. Are you mad, Meg Giry?"

"Maman, I am happy here. I will stay here as long as he allows me."

"Allows! What price, Meg? Think of it."

I took the lamp from her and walked away.

Curled up in the velvet bed, I tried to forget the dream. I knew there was no truth in my mother's warning. I knew it was just a dream born of exhaustion.

As I dressed the next morning, I saw that I was pale, there were blue-gray shadows beneath my eyes. Erik noticed, too, when I met him at the boat.

"You are _not_ going to practice today.

An hour later, we were in a carriage. It was a clear, chilly morning and the leisurely drive took out beyond the edge of Paris. I looked across to my companion. Erik sat in the corner, a dark hat low over his forehead, shadowing his mask. To the girls of the chorus and the ballet rats, the Ghost existed only within the confines of the Opera House. What would they have thought it they knew that one of their number was seated with him in a closed carriage as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

For he did have something in him that made my strange life with him seem so right and proper. The most natural thing in the world.

He had not told me where we were going, only that I should take my sketch book and pencils.

The carriage dropped us off along a quiet wooded road. Erik said something to the driver and the carriage left us. Along one side of the road, there was a pair of old gate posts. A little path led from the gate posts into a grove of sorts.

Picking up my satchel and offering me his arm (for the frozen ground of the path was uneven in places), Erik led me into the grove.

Once we let the road, Erik seemed to relax. During the ride, he had been quiet and tense, as if he feared someone might notice him.

"You've come here before, haven't you."

"Yes," he admitted, "but never by day."

The path was long, curving through the bare trees before it ended in a clearing. At the far edge of the clearing, there was a small river, its edge laced with bits of ice. Cold sunlight sparked on the water.

Most of the clearing was filled with ruins, the remnants of an old stone building. There were stone walls, broken arches. I could see what remained of a garden...bits of paths and borders lost amid the dead grass. A statue lay tipped against the wall, the graceful figure of a woman with outstretched arms. The head and hands were gone.

To some, the sight of the ruins might have seemed desolate, but to a young woman who had been raised within the artificial domain of the Opera and who had rarely left Paris, it was a romantic delight.

Erik set my bag down on the remains of a sundial. He walked into the ruins, looking up at them with affection. He ran his hand fondly along the columns supporting a delicate arch and I remembered that he had an interest in architecture.

"Well, Marguerite, what do you think?"

As he spoke, he gestured at the ruins and his black cloak swirled about him.

"It's beautiful, Erik. Where are we? What is this place?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know. A convent, I think. It must have been destroyed during the Reign of Terror," he replied, looking at the forlorn statue with regret.

For the better part of an hour, we wandered the ruins together. I tried to picture Erik there, walking along in the darkness. And I wondered if he'd ever brought Christine there. I didn't think so. She was such a delicate little thing; I could not imagine that she would have enjoyed such an excursion, day or night.

I surprised myself by asking him if he'd ever shown the old convent to Christine.

My boldness seemed to surprise him, too. It was the first time that either of us had mentioned her name since the day I gave him her letter. For a moment, I thought he would be angry. To my relief, he was not.

"No," he said, quietly, "I never did. I didn't think she would care for it."

By now, we had come back to the sundial. I took the sketchbook and found a seat on a stone ledge just inside the broken arch. While I drew - or at least attempted to - the ruins, the river, the bare trees, the damaged statue, Erik continued to walk through the ruins, lovingly examining them.

Finally, he came back to me. Watching him stride across the deserted cloister, I thought I could hear my heart pounding, a dark figure against the silver of the river, the pale gray of the stone.

It took all my resolve not to tell him, then and there, that I loved him. I knew that if I did, everything would end. I was certain he would send me a way. His heart was still Christine's; I was just a poor abandoned kitten that he had taken in. I was a temporary companion for him, nothing more.

"Come, we must return. It's getting colder now and the carriage will be waiting."


	8. Chapter 8 Great Changes

We walked back to the road and the carriage was indeed there. Erik helped me in and then settled into the corner.

"It will be spring before we know it," I said, for no particular reason. I only wanted to him to talk to me.

"Yes, the Opera season will be ending soon."

When he said that, I realized that I was eager for it to end. For the first time, I looked forward to the beginning of Lent.

I was not used to long outings and I found that I was getting sleepy. Erik slid closer to me and let me rest my head on his shoulder. I didn't wake up until we reached the Opera House.

It was very late, but there was something I wanted to say before I prepared for bed. He was seated at the organ. He never played it, but sometimes I found him there, his hands resting lightly on the keys. A score lay on his knee, a pen was in his hand.

"Erik, if you aren't too tired, I would like to talk to you. Just for a few minutes."

He nodded, laying aside the music and his pen. I drew an ottoman up beside the organ and sat before him..

"Erik, I don't want to stay with the Opera company."

"I suspected as much. You've performed better than ever these past week, but I know your heart isn't in it. I watched you and I sensed it."

He leaned back in his chair and I noticed that he was not wearing Christine's ring.

"Your mother certainly had grand ambitions for you," he continued.

"They were _her _dreams. I thought they were mine, too. But they are not."

I rose to retire, but there was one more thing to be said.

"Erik, thank you for today."

In the morning, I went to see Messieurs Firmin and Andre. I explained to them that I no longer wished to remain with the Opera and that I did not wish to sign a contract for the following season.

I was surprised by their sincerity when they expressed their regrets.

"We will, of course, see you at the ball. And you are always welcome at the Opera Populaire, you know."

After I left the managers, I went to see Monsieur Reyer. Of all of the people who lived or worked at the Opera Populaire, I think he was my favorite. He had always been there, longer even than Maman. I wanted to tell him in person that I would not be returning next season.

"I'll be sorry to lose you, but I understand. Your heart isn't in it, n'est-ce pas?"

I smiled and nodded. I knew Reyer would not argue with me or try to dissuade me from leaving.

"By the way, if you will forgive an old man's curiousity, where have you been all this time? I know you gave up the apartment..."

"I am staying with a friend."

It was the truth. Nothing more or less.

"We will, of course, see you at the Mardi Gras ball."

"Oh, the ball! I had forgotten!"

M. Reyer laughed.

"You forgot? You Opera girls never forget the masquerades! You must be in madly love with someone, Mademoiselle Giry."

As if to silently confirm the truth of Reyer's words, my eyes happened to fall on an opera score in a black portfolio. The gilt letters on the cover read:

_Don Juan Triumphant - O.G._

I wondered why he kept a copy of Erik's mysterious opera.

I thought of _Don Juan Triumphant_, remembering how the audience puzzled over the dark and harsh passion emotions in its music. Music that he had written for Christine Daae.

I could still see him there on the stage, singing with her, singing to her. I could still see the passion in his face. I remembered how, as their duet ended, he did not let her go. He held her close, caressing her face. And he begged her, pleaded with her.

_Save me, lead me from my solitude...that's all I ask ..._

It was at that moment that she tore away his mask.

I paused in the hallway; it was as if that memory was shattering my heart.

The Masked Ball held on the eve of Ash Wednesday always marked the end of the Opera season. It was a wonderful party and, no doubt, there were many people who were glad to see this season end.

After supper, I mentioned it to Erik.

"Do you plan to attend," he asked me.

"Yes, it's probably the last one I will go to. Will you be there?"

"Me? Surely, you remember that I was there the last time," he snapped.

As if anyone who had seen Red Death could forget his sudden appearance on the grand staircase, his burning eyes beneath the skull-like mask, his taunts to Carlotta, Piangi, and the managers. Nor could I forget the look in his eyes when he faced Christine, newly engaged to his Vicomte.

Perhaps I had been wrong to suggest, but he spoke again.

"They all think I am dead. It would be a fine joke on the managers if their late Ghost were to attend. They would never know that, among their guests, behind one of the masks was their old Phantom."

He toyed idly with the fringe of my black shawl which lay over arm of the settee.

"Do _you_ want me there, Marguerite?"

"It would make me very happy," I admitted.

"Then I will be there."

The next morning, I went to Madam Miron about a dress. She often made masquerade costumes for Maman and for me.

She showed me a bolt of rich crimson silk. She thought it would suit my dark brown hair and fair skin. I did not like it; it was too bold and it made me think of the scarlet trappings of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Also, I had decided I would wear the Persian shawl that Erik had given me; the crimson silk would clash with it.

"Very well," Madam said, a bit exasperated, "it's your dress, anyway."

I chose the fabric I wanted and gave Madam a sketch of what I wanted. She seemed surprised by my picture.

"It's quite good, little Giry. Perhaps, since you are no longer with the chorus, you'd like to design some of the costumes."

I laughed and shook my head at the suggestion.

On Fat Tuesday, I went to Madam Miron and she helped me into the gown. I didn't want Erik to see my costume until my toilet was completed so I borrowed a long robe and covered the dress with it.

Once in my room, I finished my preparations. The dress was of a cream-colored silk. It was in the old Empire style with short sleeves and a skirt sweeping back to a slight train. The dress was almost stark in it plain lines. I swept my hair back into a low chignon and fasten my pearl necklace around my throat. It matched the silk perfectly. I draped the vivid Persian shawl over my arms and put on my mask, a cream silk domino trimmed with tiny beads in the same rich colors as the shawl. I drew on my gloves and went down into Erik's study.

A bouquet of white roses lay on a little table beside the desk. I fastened one to my hair.

He was adjusting his mask and did not see me enter. I thought I would faint like a silly little ballet rat when I saw him. His costume was very similar to the Red Death outfit, but in a lush black velvet, trimmed with gold and silver embroidery. He put on his cloak and turned to face me.

"You look very beautiful, Marguerite"

He made an elegant bow and offered me his arm.

We made our way along one of the marble galleries overlooking the foyer. The Opera House was, as it always was on Fat Tuesday, filled with merry guests. As we walked toward the mezzanine, I realized we were attracting many curious and admiring glances.

We soon encountered Messieurs Firmin and Andre.

Monsiuer Firmin was dressed as a troubadour and Andre was...well, I am not sure exactly what his costume represented!

They were both in high spirits and greeted me with enthusiasm.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you look exquisite," said Firmin, raising his champagne glass as if to toast me.

"We are so glad you decided to come," added Andre, "and, my dear, who is your companion?"

I thought I should collapse with laughter at their ignorance and at the sardonic gleam in Erik's eye.

"Ah, Monsiuer Andre, you must guess," I said quickly and lightly, "_I _have promised him not to tell."

We moved continued down to the next landing. Behind me, I heard a young woman's voice...it sounded like Mirelle.

"Is _that_ Meg Giry? She looks so different!"

Another young woman joined her.

"And _who_ is that man with her. He is beautiful!"

If only they knew, I thought.

We had just reached the mezzanine when I saw Christine and Raoul de Chagny in the foyer.

I had never imagined that they would return to the Opera.


	9. Chapter 9 Revelations

Christine looked so lovely. She wore a dress of deep blue silk trimmed with silvery lace. Her curls were elaborately arranged and I could see a diamond necklace gleaming against her skin. Looking very much like an aristocratic lady, she held a silver mask in one hand, her other hand rested on her husband's arm. Raoul looked as charming - and as dull, in my opinion - as ever in his burgundy brocaded coat and silk britches.

I saw the Vicomte whisper something to his wife. She smiled and shook her head. It seemed as if his words had made her blush. He laid his hand gently on her waist and she looked up at him with adoring eyes.

I prayed that Erik had not turned, that he had not seen them.

I looked up at him and saw that my hope had been in vain. He took a step forward and stood there, watching them.

For a moment, it seemed as if we were no longer part of the world. I knew that people were passing us on the stairs, that we were deep in the midst of laughter, music, dancers. But we were so very far from it.

He did not move. I stepped in front of him and took his hand.

He looked down at me. There was an expression in his eyes that I could not understand

It was an emotion that I could find no name for. It was neither rage nor despair. It was dark, unreadable. For the first time, I was truly afraid of Erik.

"I didn't think they would dare...I didn't think she would come back _here,_" he said in a low voice.

"Erik, listen, please! Look at me," I begged.

His fingers gripped mine, but he did not answer me, he would not look away. I was so desperate. What could I do? What could I say to make him turn away from the happy couple.

"Erik," I cried, "I love you!"

Mon Dieu, I never meant to say that aloud. I never meant to tell him.

He let my hand fall away and, I froze, unsure what would happen next. I should never have asked him to come with me to the ball. I should have known that this would happen.

Gathering the Persian shawl around my shoulders, I turned away from him.

He caught my arm and spun me about.

"Leaving? Oh, no, Marguerite, I promised you this evening and you _shall_ have it."

His hand held my wrist so tightly, it seemed he would crush me. I could feel the heat of his hands (which were normally rather cold) burning me through our gloves.

He drew me down the stairs with him and we made our way among the dancers. That look never left his eyes.

Beneath my own bright mask, I could feel tears.

In the grand foyer, we came face to face with the de Chagnys.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth and she grew pale. Her eyes were wide and I thought she would faint. The Vicomte's face darkened with anger and he made an involuntary motion as if to reach for his sword. Mercifully, he was not armed.

I looked up at Erik. He met Christine's gaze and slowly released my wrist.

"Get away from my wife," Raoul ordered.

Neither Erik nor Christine seemed to hear him. .

"Angel, forgive me," Christine whispered.

"Christine, don't beg for his pardon," Raoul interrupted.

But for that moment, the Vicomte and I were outsiders. We looked at each other, uncertain of the next moment.

"Are you happy," Erik asked.

"I am very happy," she answered softly, tearing her eyes from his and glancing at her husband.

"There is no need of forgiveness, then. Farewell, Madame."

He made a surprisingly formal bow to Christine and, taking my arm again, walked away from the woman he had loved.

We left the ball in silence. Not a single word passed between us until he helped me step from the boat.

I was miserable. I let my beaded mask slip to the floor and the treasured shawl dragged as I made my way toward the steps.

Before I went up to my room, I took off the pearl necklace and laid it beside the white roses. Their soft white petals were already beginning to wither.

"Forgive me, Erik."

There was no answer.

I did not bother to undress. I drew down the curtain and sank down on the bed. I forced myself not to cry. I knew I was losing Erik and the grief I felt was so bitter, a thousand times more cruel than when Maman died.

In the morning, I sat forlornly on the edge of my bed. My beautiful gown was crumpled. My hair was falling loose from the chignon. I had not slept at all and had no will to rise.

"Marguerite, I wish to speak with you."

His voice was so calm that I was afraid to face him. Slowly, I stood. My anguish seemed to have turned into a physical pain. I could hardly force myself to walk.

"In the music room, Marguerite."

I stood in the doorway, afraid to face him. He was standing before a shattered mirror. Just as he had on that first day when I came down here, searching for answers.

He turned to face me, his dark blue dressing down swirling about him like the wings of a fallen angel. His white mask had always seemed a part of him, but now it seemed to have an expression of its own. The harsh, artificial features seemed to judge me and rebuke me.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"Please, Erik, forgive me." I would not lie to him, yet I was afraid to tell him the truth.

"Did you mean what you said last night"

"Yes, Erik."

He looked away from me, his eyes wandering the room as if seeing it for the first time...the organ, the piles of music, the precious violin, the pale roses.

"I think you should leave me, Marguerite. You don't belong here," he said, with a sharp gesture at his home, "I will find a place for you, you need not worry. You saved me from myself, for a time at least. I owe you that much."

"Erik, no, please, no!."

"You don't belong here," he repeated, trailing his fingers lightly over the shards of the mirror, "I couldn't condemn Christine to this and I will not condemn _you_ to it now. Go, Marguerite, leave me."


	10. Chapter 10 Out of The Darkness

I looked away from him at the white roses. Fading fast, but still beautiful.

I could not hold back my sorrow any longer. I had lost Maman, now I was losing Erik...the one person who been there for me when it seemed my world had ended...the man I had come to love.

"I will not leave you!"

I reached up and, as gently as I could, I removed his mask. He tried to cover his face, but I caught his hand and held it.

"I will not leave you, Erik," I repeated."

He pulled his hand free from mine and took a step backwards. Away from me. Mon Dieu, was there really fear in his eyes?

"No, Marguerite, I cannot," he whispered. His back was almost against the shattered mirror and he turned his head, trying to hide the right side of his face from me.

"Erik, please kiss me. I feel as if I should die if you do not."

He turned to me again and the flickering light fell full on his deformity, exaggerating it horribly. In those moments, I knew more than ever that I loved him. I met his eyes. There was disbelief there, mingling with the fear.

"Truly, Marguerite? Is this...is this what you want?"

"Trust me, Erik," I said and held out my hand to him.

Slowly, his trembling hand met mine.

I was in his embrace at last and he kissed me. When our lips parted, we were both in tears.

"Erik, beloved," I whispered as I caressed his face, "let me stay beside you forever."

When I awoke, many hours later, he was asleep in my arms. I almost wept with happiness when I thought of the night. How innocent and uncertain we were. I had seen it in his eyes as he carried me up to our bed.

"We will have to learn together, we will teach each other," I whispered as I clung to him.

As I held him, my hand trailed slowly along his shoulders. I could feel the scars there, old scars beneath my fingertips. Scars that went deeper than his flesh and left their marks on his very soul.

We left the Opera Populaire early on a Sunday morning. The strange little house by the lake was empty now. Piece by piece it had been removed; even the swan bed and the pipe organ had been dismantled and taken away. I did not ask just how he had managed this. I knew only that he was absent from the cellars for days at a time.

Nothing remained in the grottoes now except for darkness and silence. We stood there one last time, looking at the place that had been his home and my sanctuary.

Without a word, he laid two things on the steps to the old music room. One was a music box in the shape of a monkey. The other was the white wedding veil he had once given Christine.

He helped me into the boat and, for the last time, we crossed the still waters beneath the Opera House.

The theatre was all but deserted as we passed through the dim foyer. Our footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

As we stepped outside, the sun was just rising...illuminating us with soft golden light as we walked down the steps. The trees along the Boulevard were covered with delicate blossoms.

Erik turned and looked back. There was a silent farewell in his eyes as he regarded the ornate facade. Then he took my hand and helped me into the waiting carriage.

I did not yet know where we were going. I trusted Erik and my hand remained in his as the carriage reached the outskirts of the city.

Looking out of the carriage window, I saw that we were passing the remains of old gate posts almost lost amid the bright greenery and I recognized the path leading to the convent ruins.

A few minutes later, the carriage turned and clattered across a small bridge.

"Erik, you must tell me where we are going."

"Marguerite, you know curiosity can be a very dangerous thing," he said. His voice was ominous, but he smiled at me.

The carriage soon came to a stop. Erik helped me down and send the driver on his way. The man took a last glance at Erik's mask, looked at the generous tip, and drove off with a shrug. Before us stood a low stone wall with a heavy iron gate. Pushing it open, he led me down a gravel path.

I found myself standing before a small stone house; it was old and very pretty.

He took a key from his waistcoat pocket and, unlocking the heavy wooden door, led me inside. Standing in the simple foyer, I could see that all of the things from the Opera cellars were there; Erik's desk, his organ, his books, his violin

"Come, there is something else I want to show you."

He guided me outside again and into a garden. I realized that we were just across the river from the old convent.

The garden itself was filled with old rose bushes. It had been a warm spring and there were already dozens of buds.

One white rose was already in bloom.


	11. Chapter 11 Two Epilogues

I.

We were in Rome when we learned that the Christine de Chagny had died. When we returned to Paris over a year later, we visited her grave. I knelt and said a prayer for my dear friend. Even after all these years, I still missed her. She was the closest companion of my youth in the Opera. Erik stood beside me, the dead leaves of the previous autumn swirling about us. Then, from his cloak, he drew a single red rose. On the stem, tied with a black ribbon, was a diamond ring. It bore a striking resemblance to the diamond engagement ring that the Vicomte had given Christine shortly after _Il Muto_.

As we left the cemetery, we saw a fine black automobile making its way towards the de Chagny plot. As it passed us, we saw its occupants...a chauffeur, a nurse, and a gentleman. The man looked old and frail. I heard Erik catch his breath. It was Raoul. How he had aged! He looked so much older than Erik, though he was at least ten years younger.

There was compassion in Erik's eyes as he saw his one-time rival pass, a broken, elderly man.

Erik took my hand in his and, smiling down at me, we walked to the gates and our carriage. We were going home to our little stone house, to my paintings and his music.

II.

November 30, 2004

It was a chilly gray day in New York City. At one of the world's most prestigious auction houses, a sale was in progress. The buyers gathered murmured among themselves in ancipation as the next lot was announced.

"Lot 31," came the auctioneer's voice, "a portrait by the French artist, Marguerite Giry. This painting, dated 1895, is believed to be a likeness of the artist's long-time companion, a reclusive, but brilliant composer known only as Erik."

The portrait was of a man. He was handsome, one might almost say beautiful in a dark, angelic sense. He had strong, fine features and luminous eyes. His hair was dark brown with silver tracing through it. A violin lay on the table beside him, one hand seemed to gently caress its polished curves.

Half of the man's face, however, was obscured by a shadow. Behind him, through a window, there was a glimpse of a garden filled with white roses.

- The End -

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Just want to say a very sincere thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed my story. Your response has been wonderful and took me by surprise. This story started as a little something I scribbled at 2 a.m. when I couldn't sleep. I had no idea how it would turn out or that so many of you would enjoy it. Thank you so much!_


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